


Phoenix

by ricekrispyjoints



Series: From the Ashes [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Coming Out, F/M, Fake Twin AU, Gender Identity, Identity Reveal, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Trans Yuri Plisetsky, Yuri is 18, brief mention of gender dysphoria, sliiiiiightly inspired by She's the Man, supportive skating fam, yuri lies her ass off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 23:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12286056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricekrispyjoints/pseuds/ricekrispyjoints
Summary: Yuri is just starting to experiment with being a girl. She doesn't want to come out, for fear of losing her skating career, so she keeps her identity a secret. When Otabek runs into her at a café, though, she panics.“Oh, I’m… I’m so sorry. I thought you were… someone else,” he says quietly, but his gaze is piercing. “You aren’t, by chance, a relative of Yuri’s? Yuri Plisetsky?”Fuck! She wants to dissolve into dust. She wants to melt. She wants to evaporate. Whatever will get her the hell out of here.“I’m… his twin sister.”Fucking WHAT? What the fuck just came out of your mouth?!She can feel the blush rising on her cheeks and holy shit, this is the end, death is coming for her—“Yuri has a twin sister?” Otabek asks, clearly shocked.OR: The one where Yuri Plisetsky fabricates a twin sister!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! So I got this idea like a week ago after reading a transgirl Yuri fic and it started out as a joke and then it turned into... this. 
> 
> I am afab transmasculine, so while I have experience as a trans person, I don't have experience as a trans girl. If you see anything glaringly bad, wrong pronouns (BIG THANKS to siseja for catching a few!), or want to talk about my portrayal of Yuri in this fic, I'm all ears!
> 
> ***PRONOUNS: At the beginning of the fic, Yuri uses masculine (he/him) pronouns, but quickly switches to feminine (she/her). I used "Yuri" in taglines when she is acting as her masculine self (before coming out), and her new name when she is acting as her feminine self. Hopefully, this isn't too confusing! Let me know if you're lost, and I'll see what I can do to fix confusion.

There was no way he could go out like this.  


He’s wearing a plain lilac t-shirt—innocent enough—with a charcoal grey box-pleated skirt he had “borrowed” (read: stole) from Mila. He’s wearing his tightest pair of underwear, nude-colored tights, and black leather ankle boots that had just a small heel to them.

His hair is done up in a few French braids that lead into a pony tail in the back. If left down, it goes midway down his back now. Even when he’s not doing _this_ he tends to put it up.

The internet had told him about tucking, but he isn’t sure he’s ready for that just yet. Besides, he isn’t going out like this.

This is just… for him.

 

Yuri has fought his feelings about gender for a long time; back when he was fifteen, he vehemently denied it. He was angry at everything, back then, but especially at himself.

Now, at eighteen, he likes to think he’s calmed down, at least a little. He’s still a force to be reckoned with on the ice, but he’s learned to control his fiery temper, to corral it into more useful energy.

 

As he looks at himself in the full-length mirror on the back of his closet door, he can’t help but admire the way he looks. He had filled out some, as he entered his late-teen years, but not too much; he is still slender for a young man, not stocky and broad like his best friend, Otabek.

His legs are well-muscled from skating, but still slim and shapely. He has a trim waist, and his shoulders aren’t too broad. He doesn’t have the curvy hips he wants, and certainly doesn’t have any breasts to speak of, but the skirt gives the illusion of shape, and he could stuff a bra if he so chooses.

That, too, feels like a bit too much.

 _Maybe next time_ , he thinks, guiltily glancing at the drawer that contained the leopard print bra he had bought on a whim a few months ago.

(It was on sale, the band size was right, the cup size small enough not to be terrifying, and when the cashier looked at him strangely, he put on his best fake grin and said it was a gift for his girlfriend. The cashier grinned knowingly and scanned his purchase, none the wiser.)

 

He puts some music on—a few selections Yakov had suggested for his next short program—and opens up his web browser.

He can’t _actually_ go out dressed like a girl: he’s too recognizable as the famous _men’s_ figure skater. But maybe, just for himself, he can give this other side of him a new name. Her own identity. She couldn’t really be brought to life, not while Yuri was still skating, but she deserves more than being his guilty secret.

He can only imagine the press nightmare: Yuri Plisetsky comes out as a woman! Skating career over!

Impossible.

By himself, though, he could be her. She… was her.

 

Yuri had always been on the feminine side, physically. The thin bone structure, the long hair being the most obvious. But his— _her—_ ballet training and even some on-ice training had been under the direction of women, until Yakov took her on. She learned to emulate them, to mimic their movements and style, and she envied them.

For a long time, she didn’t understand that envy.

She fought it tooth and nail.

For her seventeenth birthday, Mila had begged to do her makeup. She said it would make Yuri look hot, look older, get Otabek’s attention for sure. Yuri denied wanting her best friend’s attention that way, but Mila had shot her a knowing look anyway.

And Yuri had _loved_ the makeup.

After the party, she went online and spent all her birthday money (and then some) on makeup products; she spent hours watching how-to videos on YouTube.

Sure, she knew she could still be a guy and wear makeup. But this… wasn’t that.

Yuri thanks whatever powers that existed that she lives in the age of the internet: discreet packages of women’s clothing began arriving on her doorstep. Soon, she owned basically two separate wardrobes: one for a young man—who she had to be in public—and one for a young woman.

It had to be a secret. No one could know. Her career would be a mess if word got out.

So her public persona of Yuri Plisetsky stayed firmly in place, while behind closed doors, this new, wonderful, and terrifying woman grew into her own.

After nearly a year of accepting who she really was, Yuri decided it was time to pick a name for her.

 

So here she is, sitting in front of her web browser, watching the cursor blink slowly. Where to start?

_Popular Russian girls’ names_

She hits enter, and clicks on the first result. She gets a list of names: Sofia, Maria, Anna… all boring. She skims the rest of the list, nodding at a couple names but not really interested by any of them, she goes back to his internet search and tries again.

_Russian girls’ names by meaning_

Maybe she can pick out a name that has some cool significance behind it, like “fuck you, I’m a girl” or “strength”.

She’s in the A’s, when she sees it: _resurrection_.

That… has promise. Anastasia. Anastasia means resurrection? That’s kinda badass. And she likes the nickname Nastya, too. Surprisingly, she doesn’t know anyone in real life named Nastya. To be fair, though, she doesn’t know that many girls outside of Mila.

She opens up a Word document and types Anastasia at the top of the list.

She continues browsing: so many names have religious meanings, and those are a major turn off. Yuri has never been religious, and she doesn’t want a religious name if she’s picking based on meaning.

Esfir has a cool meaning—star-like—but Yuri doesn’t like how it sounds, and she’s always had a personal beef with the letter _f_ in Cyrillic. (It’s ugly, okay? Who wants their name to have ф in it?

She smiles at the meanings of names of people she knows: Liliya, after the flower; Mila, meaning dear; her neighbor Nadezhda, meaning hope.

She adds Roksana to the list—the website says it means star of magnificence—and Vasiliya, meaning queen.

She outright laughs at Viktoriya: she would never name herself after Nikiforov.

She hits the end of the list on that website, so looks for another. By the end of a couple hours, she’s got a list of six names that interest her:

Anastasia: resurrection

Roksana: star of magnificence

Vasiliya: queen

Valeria: to be strong

Evgenia: well born (to be honest, Yuri just likes the diminutive, Zhenya)

Renata: born again

She thinks that’s enough for today, so she saves the word document in an embedded folder and restarts the playlist that she had all but ignored during her name search.

She gets up and dances a little to each piece, feeling them out. There’s not much space in her bedroom for dance, but at least she doesn’t live with Liliya anymore. _She_ never would have come about if she still lived with her ballet instructor.

She hears her phone vibrate with a new text, and she smiles when she sees it’s from Otabek.

              From: **Beka**

_bored_

Yuri shakes her head.

              From: **me**

_what do u want me to do about it?_

From: **Beka**

_idk skype me or something_

Normally, Yuri would love to, but… she’d need to change. And take a few minutes to go back to her male persona. But she still wants to think about names, wants to be herself a little longer.

 

 _What to do, what to do…_ She mulls over her options, before deciding that her new name can wait; it’s waited nearly a year, it can wait a couple hours.

              From: **me**

_Let me take a quick shower then I’ll get online_

Otabek replies with a thumbs up emoji, and Yuri sets to kicking off her boots, carefully unzipping the skirt, gently pulling down the hose, yanking off the t-shirt, and unbraiding her hair.

She’s glad she skipped the bra, this time.

 _Next time, when I won’t get interrupted_ , she tells herself.

 

Her shower is short, perfunctory: the goal isn’t really to clean, so much as to shake off the girly vibe she acquires when she’s alone and allowed to.

She redresses in a plain white tee and black joggers, no shoes since she’s just going to skype Otabek. Her feet look gross, though, from the skating, so she puts on a pair of socks so she doesn’t pick at blisters or poke at bruises.

Draping a towel over her wet hair, she pulls up Skype and messages a quick _hey_ to Otabek, and then he’s calling.

Clearing her throat briefly, she makes sure her voice is pitched low enough to sound normal. She accepts the call.

“Hey,” Otabek says with a tiny smile. “You could’ve dried your hair first, you know.”

“I like to let it air-dry sometimes,” Yuri replies. “What have you been up to today?”

“Training in the morning, but then Temir told me to go home because it’s still the off-season, I work too much, et cetera. So, I got some off-season food for lunch and now I’m bored.”

“What’d you get for lunch?”

“Kebab.”

“Mmm.”

“Yeah, but kinda sad that roasted meat in a pita was the highlight of my day. What have you done?”

Yuri freezes for a moment. Quick, think of something other than _oh you know, indulged my fantasy of presenting as a girl and shucking this awful male body!_

“Just dicked around on the internet, mostly. Yakov gave me the day off. He had some ‘personal issue’,” Yuri says, making air quotes. Suddenly, she remembers something she _can_ share. “Listened to some potential short program music.”

“Oh, what style are you doing next season? Anything exciting?” Otabek asks.

“I mean, I haven’t thought about themes or anything, but there’s some cool pieces. Hang on, I’ll link you to my favorites.”

She pulls up the playlist and copy-pastes the links to a couple good ones she had danced to. “I probably won’t pick these, but they were the best. I dunno, I’m still thinking about what I want to do with it. Viktor’s going to choreograph my short program again, and Liliya’s got my free skate.”

“Hmm,” Otabek hums.

“What about you?” Yuri asks. “Any thoughts on pieces or themes for next year?”

Otabek throws out a couple ideas, but nothing he’s super attached to, and their conversation drifts from program music to club music and Otabek’s DJ gigs, more numerous in the off season.

They chat for almost two hours, before Yuri realizes she hasn’t eaten since breakfast at eight, and it’s going on five thirty in the evening.

“Hey, Beka, I should probably go eat something,” she says reluctantly.

“Ah, ok. Uh, before you go? I have something I wanna ask you.”

“Oh, sure. What’s up?”

“Um, I was wondering if I could maybe come visit you some time. It’s my turn, after all, since you visited me in Almaty last year.”

“Oh, for sure! I’d love that. Text me some dates you’re thinking of and we’ll figure something out,” she grins.

“Alright. I’ll look into travel costs and let you know what looks best. I’ll let you eat, now.”

“Thanks. And hey, Beka?”

“Yeah?”

“I can’t wait to see you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Otabek arrives, and Shit Hits the Fan.

For some reason, with Otabek’s visit fast approaching, Yuri finds inspiration. She wants to try going out. With the right makeup and outfit, she’ll look different enough. Yuri _knows_ she can pass; even when she hadn’t been trying to be a girl, people had ‘mistaken’ her for one.

She’ll just take a short trip: to a café for a to-go cup of coffee, she decides. Short, simple. She can do this.

She agonizes over what to wear for her first excursion out: a dress? A skirt? Just jeans, but everything else extra femme?

After four outfits she deems too risky, she settles on a floral shirtdress with a pair of jeggings underneath. It’s loose-fitting enough in the top that she decides she can skip the padded bra this time: she’s only worn it once, and it had felt very odd indeed. Hopefully no one stares at her chest too much, at least not enough to ask where her breasts are.

 She picks out a pair of cream colored flats, does her hair in a simple French braid, and after applying her contouring foundation, she goes for a “natural” looking makeup: delicate bronze eyeshadow, brown eyeliner, peach colored lip balm.

This feels good.

She shoves her wallet in a simple black purse, smooths her skirt, and stands in front of the door.

 _God,_ she’s really doing this. She’s actually going to go out _in public_ dressed… as herself. Presenting as a girl. Like she really, really wants to.

But what if she runs into someone she knows? What if someone recognizes her? Oh, god, this is too much. She can’t.

 _It’s like going out on the ice,_ she tells herself. _A performance. You are the Ice Tiger of Russia, and you will not back down._

It takes another ten minutes of psyching herself up, but eventually, in a fit of pique, she throws the door open, dashes down the stairs, and finds herself standing on the street, in broad daylight, looking, feeling, and acting like a girl.

_Holy shit I did it._

Looking around to see if anyone saw her abrupt arrival, the street is empty except for an old man walking an even older dog. His glasses are incredibly thick; Yuri’s certain that he couldn’t have seen her arrival even if he had been staring right at her.

Empowered, she begins the short walk to the café two streets over. She’s a little self-conscious of her skirt in the wind, so she clamps a hand over it on one side, and hopes her purse will weigh down the other.

She makes it to the café—strategically chosen because it’s _not_ the one Yuri normally goes to. She came in once, but it was incredibly busy the second time, so she went to a different café instead, and that one had become her regular haunt.

No, no one knows her here, and she’s just getting a coffee to go. It’s fine.

Nervously, she approaches the counter. Oh no, what if her voice is too deep? She had practiced a more feminine voice, but what if it gave her away? What if someone said something?

The barista looks bored. His nametag indicates that his name is Yasha, with a smiley that is certainly not replicated on the young man’s face.

“Hi, what can I get you?” Yasha asks, and as Yuri gets closer she can tell there are bags under Yasha’s eyes.

“Um, a caramel macchiato, please,” Yuri says. She’s not normally this polite, but she thinks that girls maybe are. Societal expectations, or something.

“For here or to go?” Yasha asks.

“To go,” Yuri replies.

“Your name?”

 _Shit_.

There was no one here! Why was he asking for a name? _Quick, say something, he’s going to think you’re stupid!_

“Nastya,” she blurts.

What if she picks a different name after all? Guess she’s never coming to this café again.

“Be up in a minute.”

Yuri waits as patiently as she can, but she’s starting to feel anxious, like everyone around her can see right through her. A young couple in the corner glances her way and she’s _certain_ they know.

Fuck. This was a mistake.

“Caramel macchiato for Nastya?” a different employee calls out.

Shit, that’s her.

She hurries to the counter and takes the cup, tries to smile but it probably looks queasy, and all but runs out of the café.

She continues her speed-walk back to her apartment, closing the door with a huge sigh of relief.

Well, that was… something.

She takes a sip of the coffee, hoping somehow the drink will soothe her rapidly beating heart.

Something tells her sugar and caffeine are going to have the opposite effect, but hey: a girl can dream.

 

A couple of days later, she ventures out to a new café: this one is much farther from her apartment, so she opts to take a bus instead of walking all the way there.

This time, she’s picked out a tight black shirt with white stars patterned on it, and a jean skirt. She wants to try out the bra again, so she pulls it out of the drawer and stares at it a few minutes. It’s a little daunting, and frankly difficult to put on. How do girls do this all the time?

She can’t find the clasps by feel behind her back, so she does the clasp in the front before sliding it around to the back. She pulls the straps up over her shoulders, and takes a moment to get used to the feeling.

One day, maybe, she’ll buy actual breast-forms to fill this out, but for now, she goes for the cheap middle-school option: tissues. Her top is cut high enough that they won’t somehow be visible if they stick out of the bra a tiny bit, and she figures it’s better than not stuffing it at all. It had worked around the house, as long as she didn’t get too active.

Satisfied with her chest, she pulls the shirt on and situates it over her bra, making sure it lies as naturally as possible. She pulls on the jean skirt, opts for her black Converse, and heads to the bathroom for hair and makeup.

Today, she decides to wear a black headband and leave her hair down. For makeup, she goes for black eyeliner, carefully drawing wings. She ends up doing the second one better than the first, so she scrubs off the first to try again. On her fourth try, she’s satisfied.

Finally, she’s ready. Being a girl definitely takes more work than being a guy, but she doesn’t mind. Not when she gets to feel so comfortable from all her efforts.  Not when she feels like _herself_ because of all of it.

She grabs the same purse as last time and checks the hallway carefully before sprinting for the staircase and landing outside, just as she did before.

She walks to the bus stop, avoiding eye contact with other passersby and convincing herself that no one is staring at her, no one knows she’s trans… no one knows.

She gets off the bus six stops later, in front of the café she had picked.

There’s a couple people in line in front of her, so she has to wait.

The barista this time is an overly chipper middle-aged woman in a bubblegum pink apron. She doesn’t have a nametag, but Yuri doesn’t really care. Maybe she won’t come back to this café, either.

She orders the same thing—a caramel macchiato—but this time, when the barista asks for a name, she’s prepared. “Zhenya,” she tells her. May as well try them all out, right? She has no one else in her life she can tell, so it has to be this.

She decides to stay at the café to drink her coffee, she’s feeling comfortable enough for that. She takes it over to a corner table, where her back can be to a wall, and she can see all the other customers. If anyone is going to stare at her, she intends to stare straight back.

She takes out her phone, instagrams her drink, and texts Otabek.

Otabek sends a selfie, which is surprising; he doesn’t usually instigate their photo-wars.

But Yuri absolutely can _not_ take a selfie right now.

So she pretends like the photo won’t download because of shitty wifi, and tells Otabek about a movie trailer she saw last night, and that they should go see it when he comes to Russia.

When she’s finished her drink, she high-tails it home, glad to be back in the safety of her apartment.

Still, both outings had been a success, in her book.

She wants to go again.

 

 

She doesn’t really have time to go out again, though, since Otabek arrives only days later.

As Yuri only has a studio apartment and a twin bed, Viktor and Yuuri agree to host Otabek so he doesn’t have to pay for a hotel. Yuri owes them a shit ton of favors for this, she figures, but whatever. It’s for her best friend, so she can deal with it.

She picks him up from the airport and she’s so excited to see him that she basically jumps into his arms.

_Oops?_

He drops his duffle bag unceremoniously to the ground to take on Yuri’s weight, grabbing her thighs to support her.

She’s wearing leopard print leggings and an oversized hoodie with Converse; acceptably masculine but not too dysphoria inducing. Yuri _lives_ in leggings when she has to go out, these days. Her hair is in a half-pony tail, messy and unbrushed, and some of it gets in Otabek’s mouth.

He spits out her hair and puts her back down.

“Hello to you, too,” he smiles gently.

Yuri melts a little.

 _No_ , she tells herself. _Clamp down on that shit, you have enough to worry about without throwing your stupid_ feelings _into the mix._

They take a cab over to Viktor and Yuuri’s apartment.

Otabek asks what’s new with Yuri, and Yuri wishes desperately that she could tell her best friend the truth.

_I’ve narrowed down my chosen names to just three! They’re all really badass and I want to try them out, or ask someone for a second opinion, but I can’t!_

Over the last couple of weeks, Yuri had thrown out half the names she came up with, whittling the list down to Anastasia, Evgenia, and Renata. She cycles them around in her head, trying them out and their various diminutive forms, trying to pick one she really likes.

 _One day,_ she thinks, _one day after I’ve retired from skating I’m going to move where no one knows me and I can just be_ her _._

But she can’t tell Otabek, no matter how accepting Yuri thinks he might be, because… because she can’t. If she tells one person, she’ll tell others, someone will slip up on accident, she’ll get outed, her career flushed down the drain in its prime…

No.

Better that it stays a secret.

 

They get to Viktor and Yuuri’s place, and the married couple greets them with open arms. Yuuri shows Otabek the guest room, and Yuri follows. Otabek is staying for two weeks, so he unpacks his clothes while he and Yuri continue their chitchat from the cab ride over.

Suddenly, a thought strikes Yuri.

She can’t have Otabek over at her apartment.

There’s evidence of _her_ all over: besides the clothes that are overflowing from the closet, there’s the makeup and beauty products littering the bathroom; the magazine clippings pinned to the fridge… Shit.

She’s gonna have to do some major cleanup.

Why is she just _now_ thinking of this?

Okay, okay, it’s fine. They can go out to eat tonight, and Yuri can claim she’s too tired to hang out after and drop Otabek off here at Viktor and Yuuri’s and clean _everything_ up so he can come over tomorrow.

Yeah. That’ll work.

“So when do I get to see your apartment?” Otabek asks.

“Uh, it’s kind of a huge mess. So… let me clean up tonight and then you can see it tomorrow, how about?”

“Yura, you don’t have to clean up for me. I’m sure it’s fine,” Otabek laughs quietly.

“No, no, it’s… it’s fucking awful. You’d die. Please let me clean up first.”

“Alright,” Otabek concedes, though he doesn’t seem to understand.

“You hungry?” Yuri asks, trying to steer the conversation toward more neutral ground.

“Sure,” Otabek agrees, and with a quick shout to Viktor and Yuuri, she tugs Otabek out of the apartment and toward her favorite restaurant.

It’s a little expensive, but they serve the best borsch Yuri’s tasted since her grandma passed away when she was twelve.

She had passed on the recipe, but Yuri has never managed to replicate it.

“You like borsch, right?” she asks.

“Of course,” Otabek says. “I’m not a picky eater, anyway.”

“Okay then you’re going to _love_ this place.”

They both have the borsch, and Otabek agrees that it is, in fact, delicious. They split an appetizer of pumpkin vareniki, and then they each order their own main course that they agree to split. Yuri gets duck, and Otabek opts for beef stroganoff.

They eat fairly quietly, commenting only on the food or to ask for a taste; the ambiance of the restaurant is laid back and lends itself to their comfortable silences.

It’s not too late when they finish up and meander back to Viktor and Yuuri’s, but Otabek is a little jet-lagged, so Yuri doesn’t feel too bad dropping him off before 10pm.

She goes back to her own apartment, and takes stock of what she sees.

Evidence of well, _herself_ , is everywhere.

She takes a deep sigh, and decides that she’s at least going to feel like herself while she has to clear away all traces of being a girl. That’s the only way to keep the nausea at bay.

So she picks out a dress—a dark blue dress with lace sleeves and a thin tan belt—and does her hair fairly nicely, and puts her ankle boots on. Better.

She puts on a bit of mascara and lip gloss, but doesn’t bother with a full face because she doesn’t really have time to appreciate the effort it takes.

Satisfied, she looks in the mirror and thinks of her new names for a moment. Is this the face of Nastya? Of Renata? Of Zhenya?

She kind of thinks it’s a bummer that Renata doesn’t really have a diminutive. Maybe she’ll get rid of it. She likes having a nickname, likes how Otabek calls her Yura instead of Yuri, how Grandpa calls her Yuratchka.

Well, that’s down to two, now.

 

 Nastya/Zhenya looks back to her room, and decides the first order of business is shoving all her clothes back into her closet. She has a habit of taking out several pieces of clothing to try out, decides on something different, and doesn’t put the rest away. It sort of looks like a laundromat threw up in her bedroom.

Once the clothes are put away, she heads to the bathroom to start stashing away all her beauty products. She leaves her most neutral looking body lotion and her face scrub out on the counter; one shampoo, one conditioner, and one body wash in the shower. Everything else is crammed into the small cabinet under the sink, and she prays that Otabek doesn’t snoop.

In the kitchen, she takes all her fashion inspiration clippings off the fridge, leaving only her grocery list. She looks around for a place to store them, and since her desk doesn’t have drawers, she’s not sure what to do. Finally, she decides to put them inside a book on her shelf—a used copy of a Turgenev novel she pretended to read for school once.

She does another sweep of the whole apartment, with a critical eye. Her general décor is fairly ambiguous: nothing too incriminating about animal print and skating posters.

That’s just going to have to be good enough.

She gets ready for bed in a cami and silky shorts that feel so nice against her skin, and reminds herself that this is all worth it.

 

She wakes up _early_ the next day. Too early.

But maybe she can sneak a quick dressed-as-a-girl coffee run in. It would definitely help her mental state for the day.

 _Fuck it_ , she thinks.

She chooses a loose green shirt with cutout shoulders, jean shorts with black tights underneath, and a pair of zebra striped flats. She’s not sure the shoes really match, but she’s been wanting to wear them for ages and so she will.

She situates the bra on her chest, carefully stuffing it with tissues, puts the rest of her clothes on, and heads to the bathroom. She really wants to do one of those messy buns she sees girls wearing all the time, but she’s so used to the ballerina bun that she’s not sure she’s going to achieve the look. She musses up her hair as best she can, loops the tie around, and tugs at it until it sits right on her head.

She’ll have to practice.

Next is makeup, and she decided that today is a natural look day—it goes with her outfit and hairstyle, at least. She picks neutral eyeshadow, dabs on some mascara and a bit of lip gloss, and takes a moment to admire her handiwork. She’s getting better at this.

Today she’s going to try “Nastya” again, so she decides that for the sake of time, it’s okay to go back to the first café.

It’s only eight fifteen when she leaves her apartment, and she gets to the café just a few minutes later. Otabek is probably still sleeping; he hasn’t texted yet.

She stands in line, and there is Yasha, the bored-looking barista from last time. His curly hair is an absolute bird’s nest, and Yuri—Nastya—almost envies the fact that he surely rolled out of bed, threw on those jeans, and showed up at work.

Not that she was ever low maintenance even presenting as a guy, but whatever.

Nastya steps up to order her caramel macchiato, and prepares herself to say that her name is Nastya.

But Yasha doesn’t ask this time.

Nastya is confused. There’s a line, and it’s crowded: surely, this time, he needs a name?

“Don’t you need my name?” she asks.

“Nastya, I got it. I remember you from last time.”

“O-oh. Um. Thanks?” she’s not sure why she’s thanking him, but he shrugs and says her drink will be up soon.

She steps to the side and waits for her drink next to an older gentleman and a couple of other teenagers when she hears it.

“Yuri?”

Her blood turns to ice. She can’t move. Doesn’t want to move. Doesn’t want to see who just called that name.

“Caramel macchiato for Nastya!” Yasha calls out.

_Thank. Fuck._

_Ok,_ Nastya tells herself. _Time to ride or die_.

She practically throws herself at the counter to get the drink, giving Yasha a big smile, before she ducks her head to make a run for the door.

Someone grabs her arm and she wants to _die_.

It’s Otabek.

The terror in her eyes must be obvious enough because it makes him let go.

“Oh, I’m… I’m so sorry. I thought you were… someone else,” he says quietly, but his gaze is piercing. “You aren’t, by chance, a relative of Yuri’s? Yuri Plisetsky?”

 _Fuck!_ She wants to dissolve into dust. She wants to melt. She wants to evaporate. Whatever will get her the _hell_ out of here.

“I’m… his twin sister.”

_Fucking WHAT? What the fuck just came out of your mouth?!_

She can feel the blush rising on her cheeks and holy shit, this is the end, death is coming for her—

“Yuri has a twin sister?” Otabek asks, clearly shocked. “I thought he was an only child.”

“Ouch,” she jokes. “I mean, he’s the famous one. It’s… fine.”

“Do you… I mean, I was on my way to go visit him, but he’s probably not even up yet. Do you want to sit?”

_Say no, say no and run, say no and get home and change before he comes over and finds everything out, say no!!_

“Sure,” she says, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

_Well, fuck._

Otabek smiles and directs her to a table by the windows.

She sits and takes a sip of her drink to keep from saying something stupid.

“So, um, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Oh um. Anastasia. But you can call me Nastya,” she says. Then she realizes she isn’t supposed to know who he is. “And you?”

“Otabek. Altin,” he adds. “I’m also a figure skater, like your brother, but he’s much better than me. Don’t tell him I said that.”

_Does she pretend she’s never heard of him? How knowledgeable is Nastya?_

She figures things will be much easier if Nastya is fairly knowledgeable. Easier not to slip up.

“Oh, I thought you looked familiar: I’ve seen you skate. You’re really good, too, you know. My… brother’s style is just very different from yours.”

“You keep up with figure skating?”

“Of course. Someone’s got to cheer on Yura,” Nastya smiles.

Otabek smiles back. “I cheer on Yura, too.”

“That’s sweet of you,” she says.

“He’s my best friend. Of course I cheer for him. And he cheers for me, too.”

“You got Yura to cheer for you? You must be special, Otabek,” Nastya says. Was that too much? She’s honestly channeling Mila at this point. She’s the closest thing to a sister she’s ever seen.

“He’s… once you get through to him, he’s a good person. I’m… I mean, I think I’m his best friend too, so I guess that makes me special, but he’s just Yura, you know? Well, he’s your brother, I guess it’s different…”

“No, no; I get it. He can be prickly, but it’s kind of a front.” Nastya desperately wants to change the subject; dissecting her own personality is … weird. “So, what is the Hero of Kazakhstan doing in St Petersburg?”

Otabek makes a face at the nickname. “Please don’t call me that,” he says. “It’s so embarrassing.”

Embarrassing? Otabek never said he thought it was embarrassing before. Usually he said he didn’t deserve the title. Why was it embarrassing?

“It’s such a cool nickname though!” Nastya tries.

Otabek looks at her imploringly though, so she lets it drop. “Fine, fine. Are you just here to visit Yura then?”

“Yeah. He came out to Almaty last year on the off-season, so I figured it was my turn.”

“I’m glad Yura has a friend like you,” Nastya says after a moment, carefully pronouncing the feminine form of “glad” for herself. She’s not sure what else _to_ say.

“So, do you skate too? I mean, I figure not professionally, or surely I would have heard of you,” Otabek says.

“I uh, yeah. I skate. But not professionally.”

“What do you do?”

 _Ah shit._ She doesn’t have any backstory! This was a mistake. This is going to get so out of hand. Quick, what would she do if she couldn’t skate professionally?

Well, she’d dance. But is that too close? Would Otabek know about the dancing world, too?

Yuri doesn’t have many skills. She never finished high school. Maybe Nastya did. Maybe…

“I’m a student.”

“Oh? What are you studying?”

_Shit, more questions. Uh…_

“Dance.”

“Runs in the family, then,” Otabek smiles. He sure is a lot more free with his smiles with Nastya than he is with Yuri. Yuri has to _work_ for those grins, but here as Nastya, she gets them for free. It’s almost not fair, except that Yuri _is_ Nastya, so she can’t really complain. Much.

She lets the statement sit, only nodding in reply. She’ll need to develop her backstory if Nastya is going to continue to exist as a separate entity from Yuri.

Luckily, Otabek doesn’t seem to mind the break in conversation, and they spend a few minutes just sipping their drinks.

Somehow, Nastya needs to figure out how to get back to her apartment and change before Otabek goes there and figures out what’s going on.

“I should probably text Yura, see if he’s up yet,” Otabek says at last.

“Oh, sure. I’ll get going then, leave you to your day.”

“Can I … walk you home?” Otabek offers.

Is he trying to be courteous? Would he offer this to anyone? Is it because she’s supposedly Yuri’s sister that he’s trying to be extra polite?

“Um,” Nastya says intelligently, realizing too much time has gone by. “I have some things to do. So I’ll be fine. Please enjoy your day with my brother.”

“Ok. I hope to see you around, then.”

“Yeah, um, you too.”

She smiles and waves at Otabek as she gets up to leave. She tries not to make her exit look like she’s fleeing, but she kind of is.

She’s grateful she’s wearing shorts and flats, because she can run in these. Clutching her purse, she books it back to her apartment, practically ripping her clothes off, jumps into the shower, and scrubs herself raw.

After her shower, she’s careful to hide the bra away somewhere even more buried than usual, in case Otabek snoops. She really, really doubts it, but you never know.

She double checks that there are no traces of Nastya in the apartment, gets dressed in the most masculine clothing she can find, and pulls out her phone.

Otabek had texted nearly an hour ago asking if Yuri was up yet. She pretends that she doesn’t know he’s at a coffee shop just five minutes away, and offers to come pick him up from Viktor and Yuuri’s place.

Otabek explains that he’d gotten Yuri’s address from Viktor, and that he’d be there in a few minutes.

 _Deep breaths,_ she tells herself. _Otabek never needs to see Nastya again. It’ll be fine._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri tries to live the lie she's woven.

When Otabek does show up, she decides it’s Not Fine.

She opens the door to a smirk like she’s never seen.

“Guess who I met this morning?” Otabek says.

Yuri doesn’t have a witty reply. “Who?” she grunts, making sure her voice is low and growly. Manly. She’s a man, dammit.

“Your _sister_.”

The way Otabek says it sounds like there’s some extra meaning, but Yuri can’t for the life of her figure out what that might be.

“Oh, shit.”

“How have I known you for literal _years_ and you never once mentioned that you’re a twin?” Otabek teases.

“Because she’s a pain,” Yuri grumbles. “It never came up, anyway.”

“Are you sure? Because I can’t believe you would have completely omitted her from your family tree when you told me about your parents, your grandparents, your weird uncle Boris…”

“You remember Uncle Boris? What kind of memory do you have?” Yuri demands. _Shit. I’m caught!_

“How could I forget Uncle Boris when he appeared in the background of our Skype call, buck naked, screaming Christmas carols in April?”

“I mean… that’s pretty memorable, yeah.” Maybe she’s safe? Maybe Boris has distracted Otabek from Nastya?

“Anyway, Nastya was really nice. We chatted over coffee, while I was waiting for you to wake up.”

“I see. And uh, what did you two talk about?”

“You, mostly. We should hang out with her sometime while I’m here. I’m sure she has plenty of embarrassing stories of you as a little kid,” Otabek adds.

“Um no, not happening. I don’t hang out with Nastya.” _Because I_ am _Nastya. But that’s neither here nor there._

“Why not? She seemed perfectly—”

“No, Beka,” Yuri snapped. She hadn’t meant to, but this lie was already out of hand. She needed to get Otabek’s mind away from Nastya.

Nastya isn’t a separate person; she’s real, in that she’s Yuri, but she’s not real in that she isn’t Yuri’s _twin sister_. She doesn’t have a separate life; she doesn’t have funny sibling stories to tell; she doesn’t have her own friends, her own life.

Yuri clears her throat. “So, do you wanna go sightseeing, or play games, or go to the rink, or…”

“Sightseeing sounds good. We can hit the rink this afternoon?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Yuri shoves her wallet in her back pocket—like a _man_ should, since _they_ don’t carry purses—and they head out.

 

 

A few days pass, and Yuri thinks things are going ok. She dug out an old phone, bought a prepaid SIM card, and starts texting Otabek as Nastya. It’s overwhelming, vaguely flirty, and simultaneously the best and worst thing she’s ever done.

As Yuri, she and Otabek have established a nice rhythm of waking up, meeting up, doing a little sight-seeing here, some video games there, and of course, skating.

It’s the off-season for a little while longer, at least, but they still need to keep in shape. They hit the gym together and take sweaty selfies to post on Instagram later.

Honestly, Yuri feels a little reticent, if only to keep herself from slipping up and saying something Otabek had shared with Nastya, and not _him_ ; the texts sent to Nastya versus things said to Yuri are getting confusingly blurry.

So while Yuri would normally find herself blabbing like a maniac despite Otabek’s relative quiet, she finds herself letting Otabek start conversations, picking which topics they’re going to discuss.

Yuri is honestly surprised that Otabek hasn’t noticed her switching phones, or the timing of watching Yuri tap something and receiving a message directly after from Nastya.

It’s, quite frankly, a mess, but there’s a certain quality to the conversations between Otabek and Nastya that Yuri never got to see.

It’s not that she’s _flirting_ , it’s just that her best representation of female identity is how _Mila_ conducts herself around cute boys, so yeah, some of the things she finds herself sending in texts are definitely flirty.

But she can’t really be blamed, when Otabek seems to like it just fine.

              From: **Beka**

_I wish I could hear you laugh_

She clutches her phone to her chest instinctively, as though that will preserve the message in the annals of history or something.

              From: **Nastya**

_do u have snapchat?_

Dammit, now she’s going to have to create a new snapchat ID. Eh, she’s in this deep… She sends another message with her new username, and moments later, receives a notification that otabek-altin has added her.

It’s almost midnight, and Beka is back at Viktor and Yuuri’s. They spent most of today training, so they were a bit spent on the hanging out front. Yuri says she was going to go to bed early, but honestly, _Nastya_ had other plans.

She pulls out a simple black dress with a wide boat-neck and an A-line skirt. She makes sure her bra is secure before moving on to her hair. Finally, she does a passable smoky-eye with the help of a YouTube video, and turns on the front-facing camera. How to pose?

It’s not like she can send any nudes, given her flat chest and literal dick, but she can definitely try to do a sexy pose or two.

Plus, she kind of implied that she’d send a video of her laughing, given the timing of her request.

Careful to get as little background as possible, lest Otabek recognize Yuri’s apartment, she takes something of a Myspace angle, pouting her lips out a little bit, and captions it _make me laugh ;)_

Before she can regret it, she hits send.

She stares at the app, watching as the icon next to her message changes from sent to opened. She waits.

And waits.

Finally, she gets a snap.

It’s a video.

“I don’t know any good jokes in Russian!” Otabek laments, covering half his face with one hand. “And the internet was useless. How can I make you laugh?”

Nastya laughs at his sheer eagerness.

She decides to make him work a little harder for it, though.

She takes another picture, this time winking playfully with a peace sign. _I’ll let u figure that out yourself :)_

Should she chill with the emojis? Girls can use emojis, right? It’s fine. _Relax, Nastya,_ she tells herself.

It doesn’t take long for Otabek to reply, this time with a photo. He’s drawn a ridiculous blue mustache over his face, and captioned it, _would you still like me if I looked like this?_

She snorts in reply, before framing up a new photo of herself with one finger over her mouth like she’s thinking. _Who says I like u now?_

Nastya thinks Yuuri would call this attitude _tsundere_ , but she’s trying to play hard to get. She only has so many cards to play, and she wants to keep the game going.

This time, Otabek sends a selfie with X’s drawn over his eyes. He’s thrown himself dramatically onto his bed, one hand over his forehead like he’s a fainting heroine. _I am slain by thy cruelty,_ the caption reads.

Nastya laughs, and hits record. “Yes! Nastya conquers all!” she giggles.

Otabek replies with another selfie, though he’s dramatically pouting now. _You’re laughing at my death?_

Nastya frames another selfie with a huge grin that she can’t help. _Whoops_ , she replies.

Their selfie war continues on, and though Nastya is careful to artfully frame each one, nothing gets too out of hand. (Not like she thought Otabek would be the type to send dick pics or something, but still.)

Finally, a little before two am, the replies start to slow. It’s been a long day for both of them, but Nastya has no regrets.

Instead of a snap, her phone buzzes with a text.

              From: **Beka**

_I’m really glad I met you_

Her heart swells.

              From: **Nastya**

_Me too._

From: **Beka**

_I really want to see you again, before I go back to Almaty. Can I?_

She should probably say no, that she’s busy, because how is she going to get away with this? But she wants to say yes. She wants to spend time with Otabek as _herself_ , without the charade, but this is as close as she’s going to get. Otabek wants to see _her,_ likes _her._

              From: **Nastya**

_Of course! I’d really like that._

The reply is immediate.

              From: **Beka**

_Great. I’ll talk to Yuri, see when I can get away._

From: **Beka**

_Not that I’m trying to get away. Just. You understand._

A double text? From Otabek? Stop the presses. Nastya smiles.

              From: **Nastya**

_It’s complicated. But I’m sure he won’t mind :)_

While she’s typing the message, her other phone buzzes.

              From: **Beka**

_Do we have plans for dinner tomorrow?_

The man works fast, Nastya will give him that.

But he wants to take her out to dinner? She’s not going to say no to that. She switches back to Nastya’s phone.

              From: **Nastya**

_Hey Beka? Is this… a date?_

From Yuri’s phone, she types that they don’t have plans, and asks if something came up. Fuck, this is confusing.

Nastya’s phone buzzes, and her heart races.

              From: **Beka**

_I think so. We can decide together_

Smooth bastard. Nastya is all but swooning though.

              From: **Nastya**

_Can’t wait_

The back and forth continues as Otabek asks Yuri if it’s okay to take his sister to dinner, to which Yuri replies aggressively but acquiesces, and then Nastya receives the invite to dinner the next day. They settle on a place to meet, and a time, and then they’re saying goodnight.

Nastya is so happy, she falls asleep in her dress and makeup.

 

 

 

Nastya wakes up to a knock at the door.

Taking in her surroundings, her first coherent thought is, _fuck_.

She’s still wearing last night’s dress, there’s makeup smeared across her pillow, and she’s sure that she looks like complete and utter shit.

Her second coherent thought is, _panic._

It’s nine thirty, which means Otabek is here.

She absolutely can’t be seen like this.

She runs for the bathroom, searches desperately for her makeup remover that she’s hidden away under the sink, scrubbing her face as fast as she can.

She yanks the dress over her head, shoving it in a drawer instead of hanging it up properly. She’ll regret that later, but all she can think right now is _don’t get caught!_

The knocking is getting louder, and she can hear Otabek calling for Yuri in the hallway.

She whines rather pathetically before scrambling for the first pair of leggings she sees—purple tiger stripes—and a questionably clean grey t-shirt with a cartoon cat on it that Yuuri bought her in Japan.

She rips yesterday’s braid from her hair and pulls it up into the messiest bun ever witnessed by the naked eye, flips the pillow over to the other side, where there are thankfully no makeup marks, and runs to the door.

Taking a deep breath, she does her best to look like she just rolled out of bed, and not having a heart attack.

“Morning, Sunshine,” Otabek teases when the door finally opens.

“Fuck off, it’s too early.”

“I was up late too, but I still managed to make it over here on time,” Otabek teases.

“Asshole.”

“Now now, is that anyway to treat your _best friend_ who brought you _coffee_?”

“Ew, regular coffee?”

“It’s hazelnut with soy milk. You can only drink so many frappuccinos, you know.”

“Macchiato. Very different.”

“Whatever, princess.”

The nickname catches her by surprise. She has to stop herself from preening. She’s not a princess, right now, though. She’s _him_.

“I’m not a princess,” she grumbles, and if it’s a little belated, Otabek at least has the decency not to say anything about it.

She takes a sip of the coffee and fights the urge to go find sugar to add into it.

Otabek makes himself at home at Yuri’s tiny kitchen table, crossing his legs casually. “Yuri? I want to ask you something, and while I’m pretty sure you don’t want to talk about it, I think we should.”

Nastya sighs, sitting at the table in the seat across from Otabek. “This is about my sister, isn’t it.” She doesn’t say it as a question, because it isn’t one.

“Yeah. I just… can you tell me what happened? Why you’re not close? Just… something? All either of you will say is ‘it’s complicated,’ and at this point it just feels like I deserve to know.”

Nastya has been cooking up a couple of ideas for her alleged backstory, because she figured being prepared would be better than not. She mulls over her options quickly, and decides on version A.

“When, ok, so when my dad died, I was… we were twelve. I was in Juniors, but rising quickly. I switched coaches to be with Yakov that year, and I moved to St Petersburg. By myself. To train. Grandpa stayed in Moscow, because he was still working, and Nastya stayed with him.

“When Grandpa stopped working, I was sixteen. I barely saw him or Nastya, and then Nastya decided to go live with some other relatives in Novgorod. So even when I made it over to Moscow to see Grandpa, I didn’t see her. I hadn’t seen her for two years, actually, until she up and moved to St Petersburg for school.

“So it’s complicated, I guess, but just because we haven’t really been family since we were kids. It’s been six years since we saw each other regularly. It’s just… weird, ok? And she wants what’s best for me, and I want what’s best for her, and right now that means not really seeing each other, ok?”

Otabek listens patiently as Yuri draws the story out of herself. She secretly hopes that Otabek won’t buy it; that he’ll call her on her bullshit and make her confess everything.

But she sees the quiet acceptance in his posture, and her gut clenches guiltily.

After a moment, Otabek takes in a breath, like he’s going to say something, but he lets it out and allows the silence to linger.

Finally, he speaks.

“I was… surprised that you let me ask your sister out.”

That’s not exactly what she was expecting, but alright.

“Why? You’re a grown ass adult, you can ask out whoever you like,” Yuri says, making her voice extra gruff.

“Yeah, but if you don’t want me to, to see her, I would understand. It’s just, even after six years apart, you two are so alike. I see so much of you in her.”

 _You have no fucking idea,_ Nastya thinks to herself.

“I don’t see you asking me on dates,” she bites. Anger and bitterness are her only defenses at this point.

“Yura, you were never interested.”

Hang on. _What?_

“Whatever.” In all honesty, she hadn’t been interested, and then she had started putting together her new identity, and that had taken precedent over… feelings. But now, as she settles into being Nastya, she wants it.

She wants to be someone’s—Otabek’s—girlfriend, wants to go out on dates and wear cute clothes and take stupid couples selfies together. She wants to hold his hand and kiss him and cuddle and maybe even more than that.

But there hasn’t been time.

And then Otabek had discovered Nastya at that café, and any plans of telling Otabek in a normal, healthy way were dashed as soon as that blasted lie popped out of her mouth.

_I’m his twin sister._

Fucking idiot, is what you are, Nastya scolds herself.

Rubbing her face tiredly, she lets out a long sigh.

“Why don’t you come out with us?” Otabek says suddenly.

“What?” Nastya asks dumbly.

“Come out. The three of us can grab dinner, we can all talk and get to know each other… it could be nice.”

 _Except that it’s literally impossible,_ Nastya groans inwardly.

“No, I… Not tonight. You two have your fun. You have to go home soon anyway. She won’t get to see you for a while. I can see her whenever.”

“But will you?”

“If I promise I’ll make an effort, will you go on your stupid fucking date?”

“Yes, but only if you promise nicely,” Otabek teases.

“I promise. I’ll talk to her. We’ll… figure things out. We just need some time. You can’t throw us together and expect us to just get along.”

“I know, I just… You’re my best friend, and your wellbeing is important to me. I think having your sister back in your life might be a good thing.”

“Yeah, Nastya is… important. I’ll talk to her. Now can we do something less depressing like getting blini in the park or something? I’m tired of talking about my fucking feelings.”

Otabek laughs, and Nastya thinks that maybe, just maybe, she can pull this off.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The date, and Shit Hits the Fan v2.0

When the evening rolls around, and Yuri yells at Otabek to go back to Viktor and Yuuri’s already to get ready for his date, it takes some creative cursing to get out of helping Otabek get ready.

How can she help Otabek get ready when _she_ needs to get ready herself? She’s gonna take way longer to get all dolled up, anyway, so really this is going to be nearly impossible to pull off.

 _I hope Beka likes his dates fashionably late_.

They’re going to the same restaurant that Yuri took Otabek to their first night here together; Yuri’s not enough of a regular that they might recognize Yuri while she’s dressed as Nastya, so she figures it’s safe enough.

The dress code isn’t particularly fancy, but Nastya wants to look her absolute best. It’s a _date_. Her first date, actually, as either Yuri or Nastya. She’s only eighteen, and she’s been skating her entire life. There has never been time.

For Otabek, though, she makes time. It’s not likely to happen again anytime soon, so she finds a way.

She wishes desperately she could call Mila and ask for clothing advice, but there’s no way in hell that’s happening at this point in her life, so she’s going to have to make do.

She surveys her closet and considers what looks sexy but also makes her feel confident.

Her eyes settle on a red and black sheath dress: the top features a crossover sweetheart neckline in red with black polka dots, and the tight black skirt of the dress smooths over her slim figure perfectly. She’ll have to be careful not to move around too much, so her bra doesn’t show, but she thinks it’s perfect. Will she be overdressed? Absolutely. But it’s her first date. Go big or go home, she figures.

She decides to go modest on the makeup: a light shimmer applied to her lids, nearly identical winged eyeliner. She can’t help but put on some red lipstick though, to match the dress.

She does a crown braid, like Liliya had shown her for last year’s short program, and finally heads to her shoes. Black seems the obvious choice, and she has a pair of simple black pumps that should work. She’s not great at walking in heels, but she figures if she’s careful it’ll be fine.

She checks the time on her phone – she’s going to be late – before cramming it into her little black purse along with her wallet, lipstick, and a few miscellaneous things.

She checks herself in the mirror one more time before heading out for her date.

Nastya arrives at the restaurant not quite ten minutes later than they agreed to meet, but Otabek doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he doesn’t seem to be able to form a single thought.

“Nastya, you… You look stunning,” he finally manages.

Otabek himself is dressed quite nicely. Nastya is fairly certain that shirt is Viktor’s, since it doesn’t quite fit in the shoulder (and why would Otabek have brought such a formal shirt for a visit with Yuri?), but the material is nice and the deep blue color suits him. He’s wearing charcoal grey slacks and black brogues, his hair slicked back like when he skates.

Nastya blushes at the compliment, glad that her efforts have paid off. She knows she looks good, but to know that _Otabek_ thinks she looks good, too, adds an extra layer to the happiness she’s feeling.

“You look great, too,” she replies, meaning it sincerely. She doesn’t want to be crude, but Otabek is _hot_. Especially all dressed up like this.

It’s that bone structure. Gets her every time.

The hostess brings them to their table and explains the specials.

They both order the borsch again; Nastya orders an eggplant dish, and Otabek goes for a Pozharsky cutlet.

They make small talk about how they like St Petersburg, Nastya asks all kinds of questions about Kazakhstan, and soon enough, their food arrives.

“You should teach me something in Kazakh,” Nastya comments as she settles her napkin in her lap.

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Something easy. Start with like, hello, or something,” Nastya suggests.

“Salem is hello,” Otabek says.

“Salem,” Nastya repeats.

“And thank you is rahkmet,” Otabek supplies.

Nastya repeats the word back.

Otabek tries a few more phrases, like “sättilik”, meaning “good luck”.

“You could teach Yuri so he can cheer me on at competitions,” he teases.

“Or I could cheer you on,” Nastya says with a smirk.

“Of course; I would love to have you cheer me on. I’m sure you’re very motivational,” Otabek says.

“Should I make a sign for you? I could cover it in glitter and tiny bears,” she says with a smile.

“And what would the sign say?”

“’Sättilik Beka,’ of course. And then maybe on the bottom ‘sorry @ Yuri Plisetsky,’ just for good measure.”

“That sounds perfect,” Otabek grins back. “Can’t wait to see it. I’ll let you know if I have any competitions in Russia this year, and you could… maybe be there.”

“I’d love to,” Nastya says earnestly. She really would, it’s just that she’ll probably be at her own competitions or practicing for them. Not to mention there’s no way her “disguise”—being Nastya—would hold up in the face of Yuri’s Angels or certain other members of the skating community. No, she could make the sign and say she gave it to Yuri or something? Why would Yuri Plisetsky agree to hoist a sign like that?

 _Sorry, Beka_.

The rest of dinner goes great, and Otabek offers to walk her home, like she suspected he would.

“I, uh, think I’m gonna go check on Yuri, actually. You could walk me to his place?”

“Sure. You know, I um, spoke to him. About your… complicated relationship. How you’ve been apart from each other for a while. I think I understand; distance can make it difficult, and the life of a professional skater is busy. And of course, you have your own things going on, too. I just… Yuri tends to be kind of isolated. I worry about him. So I hope that you two can figure things out, and be there for each other.”

“That’s… so sweet,” Nastya says. God, Otabek cares so much for Yuri; this is all so messed up. He’s going to find out the truth some time, and he’s going to _fucking hate Yuri_ _for it._

“I know there’s things he won’t even tell me, and I think he’s probably more open with me than most others. Maybe Viktor knows more, but it’s hard to say. Just… be gentle with him, yeah?”

 _Gentle?_ No one is gentle with Yuri Fucking Plisetsky.

Maybe that’s what Yuri was always missing, though. The ability to be soft. The safety in it. As any gender, sometimes people need to be soft.

Nastya is allowed to be soft.

Maybe that’s why she’s so comfortable after all this time fighting against the world.

“I’ll try,” Nastya promises. “To be gentle, I mean. I don’t know if I’m any good at it either, to be honest. Must be a family trait,” she tries to joke.

“Well, I think you’re pretty amazing, so I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Otabek assures her.

The walk back to the apartment is far too short. Nastya doesn’t want this to end. She knows it has to, but what if this is the only time she gets a chance to be Nastya with Otabek? Sure, they can still text and snapchat each other, but it won’t be the same.

They get to the building, and Nastya fishes her keys out of her purse.

“So…” she says awkwardly. “I um, had a really good time, Beka.”

“I’m really happy to hear that. I did too.”

“It’s too bad you’re going back so soon.” She bites her lip.

“I know. But we should stay in touch,” Otabek assures, and he reaches for her hand.

She feels tiny in his grip, his hands noticeably broader than hers.

 “Of course,” she says, but it’s barely a whisper. She can’t meet his eyes, so she stares at their joined hands instead.

“Nastya?”

“Hmm?” she asks, eyes still downcast.

A gentle hand tilts her chin up though, and she finds herself staring into those beautiful, deep eyes.

“Would it be too forward of me to kiss you right now?”

Nastya’s eyes widen in amazement. _Kiss? Otabek?_ Fuck _yes!_

“No, I’d… I’d like that.”

Otabek leans in, Nastya’s eyes slide shut, and then she feels the warmth of Otabek’s lips pressing against her own.

It’s indescribable.

Soft, warm, good, _more_ … She’s barely forming full thoughts, her brain short circuiting from the contact, chaste though it is.

Otabek draws back, but Nastya chases his mouth and they kiss again.

She wants this feeling forever, but then she remembers that she can’t have it. The best she can have is a sham of a long-distance relationship with her best friend.

Yeah, because _that’s_ going to work out well.

She reluctantly pulls back, but refuses to open her eyes just yet. She’s going to remember this for as long as she can.

“Nastya, I… I really like you.” Otabek is actually _blushing_ at the admission.

“I like you too, Beka. I just wish… I wish it didn’t have to end like this.”

“It doesn’t have to end,” Otabek says so quietly it’s barely audible.

“You’re going home to Kazakhstan. We’ll never see each other. I…”

“Then at least be my friend,” Otabek says, and the sincerity in his voice nearly chokes Nastya.

How could she say no?

“Of course. And you know, if you’re ever back in the country, come see me.”

“Absolutely.”

They stand there a few more moments, before Otabek tugs her in for another kiss. She can’t resist.

This time when they pull apart, she takes a steadying breath. “I should go in,” she says.

“You could come to the rink with us tomorrow,” Otabek says. “It’s my last day.”

“I can’t, I’m sorry. I have my own practice.”

“Worth a shot,” Otabek says ruefully.

“Goodnight, Beka,” Nastya says gently.

“Goodnight, Nastya.”

She fits the key into the lock and slips into the dark apartment.

When she closes the door, she does not cry.

She gets undressed, takes off her makeup, undoes her hair, brushes her teeth, and gets dressed for bed.

Yuri’s phone has a bunch of messages from Viktor and a couple from Yuuri.

              From: **Viktor**

                            _Otabek says he has a date with your sISTER???_

From: **Viktor**

_You don’t even have a sister??!?_

From: **Viktor**

_Is it a Yuri’s Angel or someone similarly crazy?_

From: **Viktor**

_Yuri????_

Shit.

From: **Katsudon**

_Yurio, Viktor is kind of worried. Please let us know that everything is ok._

 

Double shit.

 

How the hell is she going to explain this?

 

              From: **Yuri**

_Everything’s fine. Beka’s on his way back to you guys._

 

She knows that’s not going to cut it, but it’s a start.

If she can just get Otabek home to Almaty, maybe something will come to her. Some stroke of luck, or of genius, that will unfuck this very fucked up situation.

              From: **Viktor**

_Yeah but who is she? What the hell is going on, Yuri?_

 

Oh, shit. Viktor didn’t call her Yurio. He’s serious.

 

              From: **Yuri**

_Did you say anything_

From: **Yuri**

_Look, I’ll explain tomorrow, after Beka’s gone, ok?_

              From: **Viktor**

_I’m holding you to that. Otabek just got back. We’ll talk tomorrow._


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nastya explains herself.

 

After a fitful night of tossing and turning and waking up in a cold, sweaty panic, Nastya gets ready to go the rink with Otabek for a short morning training session before Otabek’s late afternoon flight.

She gets dressed in her usual training gear, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail that feels like a direct representation of her thoughts this morning.

She can still feel the ghost of Otabek’s lips on hers. She’s going to spend the whole morning with him, but she can’t kiss him again. Because she has to be Yuri for now. And Yuri doesn’t get to kiss her best friend.

Her warmup on the ice is distracted at best, but Otabek’s skating has never looked better.

During their first break, Otabek bumps Yuri’s shoulder. “Hey,” he says. “How’d it go with Nastya last night?”

“Fine,” she says distractedly. “She told me about your date, then we decided it was late and she went home.”

“But you’re still going to—”

“Yes, Beka. We’ll talk shit out. It just wasn’t the right time last night. She was all happy and distracted from your date. I didn’t want to like, crush her soul with heavy shit.”

“She was?”

“I can’t believe you kissed my sister.”

“Yeah,” Otabek smiles, slow and lazy. He looks beautiful like that. Nastya wishes she could take a photo.

“Ugh,” she groans, pretending to be grossed out by something that may well have been the highlight of her year. “Hey, uh, did Viktor say anything weird to you?”

“He didn’t seem to know Nastya was in town. He was really surprised when I said I was going to dinner with her. Have they not met?”

“Ah, no,” Nastya says quickly. “But I think maybe they will soon. Viktor wants to meet her, at least.”

The dread piles into her stomach, weighing her down like a ton of bricks. The rest of practice is going to be hell, feeling like this.

They finish their break and get back out on the ice; fortunately, Yakov is concerned with Mila for the moment, so Yuri does a few spins and doesn’t even _think_ about jumps until he has to.

Practice ends, and they shower and clean up, eat a light lunch, and then all too soon they’re at Viktor and Yuuri’s packing up Otabek’s things to take him to the airport.

“It’s too bad Nastya was busy today,” Otabek says quietly.

“Yeah, bad timing,” Nastya says casually. “But you can still be all gross and text each other. Just don’t involve me.”

“We’re… we’re just going to be friends, Yura. She doesn’t think long-distance, uh, not friends, will work.”

“She’s probably right.”

“Maybe.”

And then they really do need to get going to the airport so Otabek doesn’t miss his flight.

They part with a strange sort of handshake hug, and then Otabek is sliding down the hallway to the security line, and he disappears from view.

Nastya’s chest aches, and she can’t believe Otabek was only here for two weeks.

Two weeks, and her whole life has turned upside down.

She remembers her promise to Viktor, and decides to just go straight there to get things over with.

This is going to be the worst conversation of her life, probably.

 

As soon as Yuuri opens the door, Nastya charges in.

“Where the hell is Viktor?”

“He’s—” Yuuri starts.

“Yurio?” Viktor calls from the other room.

“Sit down and shut up,” Nastya demands. “You too, Katsudon.”

She drags a hand down her face. “Alright. First and foremost, you are hereby sworn to _absolute_ fucking secrecy. I am not fucking around; if you breathe a word of this to _anyone_ I will know, and I will rain hellfire upon you both.”

“Yuri, is everything okay?” Yuuri asks.

“Swear yourselves to secrecy,” she demands.

“You’re not doing anything illegal, are you?” Viktor asks.

“Fuck! No! Just fucking promise me you won’t say anything! To _anyone_! Not Beka, not Yakov, not Mila, not your fucking dog. No one.”

“I promise not to tell, _unless_ it becomes apparent that someone is in serious danger,” Yuuri says at last.

“God, no one’s in danger. This is just all so fucked up,” she’s practically pacing now, while the couple sits on their couch watching her warily.

“I promise the same,” Viktor says, his face more serious than Nastya is used to seeing it.

“Ok,” she says, breathing deeply. “Fuck. Ok. So uh, there’s been a, shall we say, series of miscommunications.”

Viktor draws a breath as if to say something, but Yuuri puts a hand on his leg and stops him. They wait patiently for Nastya to figure out what to say.

“I may have fabricated a twin sister.”

Their brows furrow almost in unison, but still they remain silent.

“Beka… may have seen me… dressed as … a woman. At a coffee shop.”

Another long pause.

“I didn’t want him to know it was me, but he asked if I was related to Yuri Plisetsky, so I said yeah. That I was his twin sister. And then… things got away from me and now Beka thinks there’s two of me. But there’s not. It’s just me. Except I um…”

She doesn’t make another move to speak for a long moment, so Yuuri steps in.

“How about we back up, just a little. You said you were at a coffee shop, dressed as a woman,” he says gently, evenly, with no judgement whatsoever. “Is that something you do often?”

Nastya can’t find her voice now, so she simply nods.

“Is it… Are you dressed as a woman, or _are_ you a woman, in this scenario?” Yuuri asks softly. “Either is fine, I’m just seeking clarification, okay? You’re safe here, and we love you no matter what.”

He doesn’t really have to say that last part; Nastya knows she's safe with them. She’s loathe to admit it but she loves them too, in a weird you’re-not-really-my-parents-but-kind-of way.

Instead of answering directly, she says, “I picked a new name. I have a complete new wardrobe, I learned how to do my makeup, my hair…”

“Would you like us to use that new name?” Viktor asks in the same soothing but not patronizing voice that Yuuri is using. “We’d be happy to, if that would make you more comfortable.”

“You can’t tell anyone. You promised.”

“Just among us, then,” Viktor offers. “It’s Nastya, right? Anastasia? That’s who Otabek said his date was with.”

“Yeah.”

“So that was you he went out with,” Yuuri confirms.

“Yeah. And… fuck, we kissed, and it was super fucking PG and everything but he’s going to fucking _hate me forever_ if he ever finds out that I basically duped him.”

Viktor and Yuuri are quiet for a minute.

“Was there a reason you didn’t feel comfortable telling Otabek the truth?” Yuuri asks. “It’s just, you two have become such good friends, you can hardly think he would have judged you or received you poorly.”

“Look, if it were up to me, literally no one in the skating world would know I exist, okay? Me, Nastya, existing, I mean. Because I can’t compete in women’s skating; it wouldn’t be fair. But would they let me keep skating with the men’s division if I came out? I can’t lose skating, it’s literally the only thing I have in my entire life, the only thing I have control over. I need it too badly. So I can’t come out.”

“We’re not asking you to come out, Nastya,” Viktor says easily. “Not to the skating world, at least. We just wanted to know why you didn’t feel that you could tell your closest friend, but here you are telling us.”

She can feel the frustration building. “Because! I didn’t have a choice with you! Beka told you he had a date with my ‘sister’, and you got all nosy and there was no other way to explain what happened than to tell you everything!”

Viktor purses his lips. “I’m sorry to have put you in that situation, Nastya. It wasn’t my intention.”

“Fuck your intentions,” she spits, finally slumping down into the chair across from the couch. She huffs for a moment, but finally relents. “Look, you guys are… different. You’re like, kinda like family, I guess. Beka, he’s… I mean yeah we’re close but he’s not exactly Mister Emotional and I was scared, okay?

“He caught me off guard at that café, and what was I supposed to say? Hey, the girl standing in front of you is one and the same with your best friend, who you know as a dude!”

“That’s certainly a very direct approach,” Yuuri chuckles lightly. “But… Nastya, can you honestly say that this situation is better than just having told him the truth in the first place?”

“I don’t know!” she exclaims. “I don’t … I don’t fucking know. I don’t know how to fix this. I sold my soul for this damn lie; I got a second phone number for myself, a new snapchat, everything. I lied my _ass_ off to my best friend.”

“And one way or another, you need to fix that,” Viktor says firmly.

“Fuck, I know, I just… I’m so scared. Now I have to come out to him _and_ tell him I lied. I’m an asshole. I’m a terrible fucking friend.”

“No, you’re not. You made a mistake. You’re a human, just like the rest of us,” Yuuri assures her.

“Look,” Viktor says, “how about you take a few days to decide what you want to say. You can practice on us, if you think that would help. Then, you need to contact Otabek and tell him what happened. I think he’ll be confused and upset more than truly angry with you.”

“I don’t want to do this over Skype or something, though,” Nastya sighs. “Guess I’m going to Almaty for a couple days. Right before training kicks back up. Fuck, Yakov’s gonna kill me.”

“I’ll smooth things over with Yakov,” Viktor assures. “We’ll call it a personal emergency. You’re a very dedicated skater; he’ll understand that this is something that has to take precedence.”

“Okay. Shit. Okay,” she breathes.

“And just to be explicit: in private, you want us to use she/her pronouns, and call you Nastya? But continue using he/him and Yuri in public, correct?” Yuuri asks.

“Yeah, that’s… that’d be good. But fuck, you have to be careful, okay? I don’t want to deal with the ISU or anything.”

“Of course, Nastya. We will exercise every possible caution.”

 

Nastya isn’t sure if having told Viktor and Yuuri lifted a weight from her shoulders or made it feel even heavier.

She knows that she has to come clean with Otabek. She doesn’t _think_ he would abandon their friendship over this, but it might not be the same, afterwards. He might get overly cautious, or he might distance himself. He might not trust Nastya anymore, after such a serious deception.

He might never kiss her again.

That was of course, always a possibility, and Nastya knew that; but it still hurt to think about.

She imagines all kinds of conversation starters, but all of them feel fake and horrible. She needs to basically invite herself to Almaty for a couple of days to explain herself, but what if Otabek doesn’t have time for her? What if he’s too busy training?

Does she approach him as Yuri or Nastya? Which phone does she use?

After two days, Nastya comes to the conclusion that it’s Nastya who made this mess, so she should be the one to clean it up.

She opens the phone and reads the latest text from Otabek.

              From: **Beka**

_Your next Kazakh lesson: men seni sagyndym. I miss you_

              From: **Nastya**

_How do u say “same”?_

From: **Nastya**

_Actually, though, I need to talk to you. About something really important. I wasn’t entirely honest with you, and I need to fix that._

_Are you busy t **h** e next couple of days?        _

She waits for Otabek’s response, picking at a hangnail. She checks the time, and she doesn’t think he’s usually busy at this hour.

About ten minutes later, she gets her reply.

              From: **Beka**

_I have practice, but I’ll have free time. Do you want to Skype?_

              From: **Nastya**

 _I was actually going to come visit you. I feel like it’s something that needs to be said in_ _person._

              From: **Beka**

_Does Yuri know?_

From: **Nastya**

_Yes. He knows everything. Can I come see you?_

From: **Beka**

_I feel bad having you come all the way here. Are you sure?_

From: **Nastya**

_Yes. I’m sorry, it can’t wait and I need to say it in person._

From: **Beka**

_Okay. Are you ok? Safe? Let me know when your flight is?_

From: **Nastya**

_I will be okay. Yes, I’m safe. I’ll forward my itinerary to you._

Twenty-four hours later, she’s packed and on a plane to Almaty.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nastya and Otabek work things out.

Nastya dressed as Yuri for the flight, so she had to figure out a way to change clothes without causing a stir. The problem, of course, was if she went into the men’s bathroom and emerged dressed as a woman, there might be a problem. But if she went into the women’s bathroom dressed as a man, she might _also_ have a problem. Weren’t there family bathrooms or something?

It felt like forever wandering around the airport, but she did find a unisex bathroom, intended for handicapped people. Muttering a quick apology, she dashed inside, locking the door tight.

She’s definitely gotten the routine shortened down—the first few times she became Nastya had taken well over an hour—but it’s still a good twenty minutes before she emerges from the bathroom.

She’s wearing a green and black striped top, dark jean shorts, and tights with little cats peeking over her thighs, and tiger-striped high-top converse. Her hair is in a messy bun, because she didn’t want to take the time to braid it back into something more intricate.

Finally, she heads toward the exit and texts Otabek that she’s getting in a cab and will be at his apartment soon.

She stares out the window, glad that the cabbie isn’t the type for small talk. He’s got a talk radio show on, but it’s in Kazakh so naturally Nastya doesn’t really follow what they’re talking about.

The cab pulls up to Otabek’s building, and taking a deep breath, Nastya steels herself for what’s to come.

Sure, she’s practiced what she wants to say, but something tells her that’s all going to go out the window when she sees him.

 _Just don’t cry_ , she begs herself. _Please don’t cry._

She rings the buzzer, and Otabek’s voice crackles over the speaker almost immediately.

“Nastya? Is that you?”

She smiles. “Yeah, it’s me. Can I come up?”

“Of course,” he says, and the door buzzes and clicks to unlock.

She walks up to the third floor, where Otabek is waiting in his doorway. As soon as she clears the stairs, he rushes forward.

“I know you said you’re okay, but you really got me worried,” he says quietly, taking her into his arms for a gentle but firm hug.

She allows herself to melt into his arms a little bit, but not too much. She’s here for a reason, and she has to remain focused if she’s going to accomplish it.

“Sorry for worrying you,” she says, pulling back.

Otabek takes her luggage and her hand, tugging her gently inside.

 Once the door is closed, Otabek steps in close again. “Can I kiss you?”

Nastya bites her lip. “I want to say yes, but I think we should talk first. Then you uh, can decide if you still want to kiss me or not.”

Otabek’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t say anything. They settle on the couch, a close but comfortable distance apart.

“Oh, can I get you anything? Something to drink? Or eat?” Otabek asks.

“Maybe some water?” Nastya says. Planes always dry her out, and she’s got some talking to do.

Otabek returns with a mug full of water, handing it to Nastya before sitting down next to her again.

“I don’t want to… to rush you or anything, but, what’s going on?” Otabek asks carefully.

Nastya takes a long drink of water, sets the mug down on the coffee table, and prepares to begin her speech.

“From the first moment we met, I… I wasn’t honest with you. Well, maybe not the very first moment, but… I lied. And I’m so sorry, but I did it because I was scared and I never thought it would get this, this _big_ and out of control, but it did and I feel like shit about it.”

Otabek swallows visibly, and looks torn between saying something and not.

“Nastya?” he says simply, when she doesn’t make any move to continue her explanation.

“I didn’t expect… to become friends with you, or for you to, I don’t know, _like_ me, like want to date me or kiss me and stuff. I didn’t expect to see you again at all. You were there for Yuri, not for me. You didn’t know about me at all. I should’ve just ignored you at that café.

“Beka, I… I, fuck, I don’t know how to say this.”

“Take your time,” he assures her, though the worry is clear in his voice and on his face.

Nastya can’t bear to look at him when she tells him this. Will he believe her? How is she going to do this? There’s no way to get her point across without just being blunt, but god, it _hurts_ , her chest aches and her stomach is in knots.

Will Otabek ever forgive her for this?

“I… pretended to be two people so I didn’t have to tell you that… I’m trans. Because apparently I’m a shitty person who doesn’t trust their friends.”

She waits for Otabek to speak, figuring it’s a lot to take in.

“What?” he says.

“Yuri… Yuri and Nastya are the same person. It’s just me. I don’t have a twin.”

Otabek’s eyes go wide with realization, and Nastya suddenly gets nervous so she starts to babble.

“When you saw me at that café, I was just starting to go out as a girl, I hadn’t even really picked my name yet, I was just trying things out? But then you saw me, and I panicked, because I didn’t want to tell anyone yet, it was so new, actually _leaving my house_ dressed like, like Nastya, so I freaked. When you asked if I was related to Yuri, I saw my chance and I said I was his twin, because who would believe we were cousins with _the exact same face?_ I lied because I was so, so fucking scared, and I don’t really think that makes it any better, but—“

“Nastya.” Otabek’s voice is firm, even. He doesn’t sound angry, but no _way_ is Nastya going to look at his face and find out. “You’re—you prefer Nastya, then?”

“But you can’t tell anyone, I can’t come out publicly, my career, and—”

“So just you and me. Right now. You’re Nastya, you’re a girl, and you use she/her pronouns.”

“Yes,” Nastya whispers.

“And in public, you have to be Yuri still. A man, who uses he/him pronouns.”

“Yes.”

Otabek takes a deep breath. “I won’t lie, I’m… hurt, that you thought you had to do this. That you were so scared that you’d rather deceive me than just explain… who you are.”

Nastya just hangs her head in shame.

“But part of me is, I don’t know, relieved?”

Wait. _What?_

“Because I was so worried about Yuri having a strained relationship with one of his only remaining family members, but that wasn’t what was going on at all. And um, now I don’t have to feel conflicted about having feelings for Yuri _and_ Nastya. You’re both one person, so I can just have feelings for you.”

Otabek had feelings for Yuri? What?

“Are you serious right now?”

“Yes?”

“No I mean, like, you’re not… mad at me? That I’m trans? Or—”

“I would never be mad at you for being trans. I wouldn’t even be mad at you for not wanting to come out yet. I realize you got put in a difficult situation, and that’s why you invented the story. I… I’m not really mad at you at all, actually. Just a little upset, I guess.”

“You’re too good to me, Beka,” Nastya says, and throws herself at him for a hug.

Otabek chuckles softly, holding her gently. “I’m just as good as you deserve.”

They sit like that a few minutes, just quietly holding onto each other. Otabek rubs Nastya’s back lightly, hand catching on the band of her bra before he moves just to her lower back instead.

Not wanting to fall asleep in this position, Nastya slowly sits up, but Otabek simply rearranges them so they can cuddle more comfortably on the couch.

After a few minutes, he breaks the silence. “Would you… would you be willing to tell me about how you, uh, became Nastya? Like, how long have you known you were a girl?”

“Um…”

“You don’t have to, I’m just curious, I guess.”

“I can try. It’s just… there wasn’t like, a sudden realization. It’s been a long process.”

“Well, I’d be happy to listen to whatever you’re willing to tell me.”

So Nastya tells him about how she was teased mercilessly as a young child, too girly to be one of the boys, but still a boy, and so therefore not a _real_ girl. Learning skating and ballet from women, wanting to be like them, until puberty hit and she _really_ realized she wasn’t a girl, would never be (or so she thought at the time).

She tells him how she just got so _angry_ : angry at others for calling her a fairy or feminine, because she had to be a _boy_ so just _stop it_ ; angry at the rules because she couldn’t compete against cis-girls fairly, not with all her testosterone; but most of all, angry at herself for being this way. It wasn’t fair. She grew to hate the feminine parts of herself, tried to bury her dysphoria because she didn’t think she could ever, ever be anything but a boy.

She tells him about Mila doing her makeup, and the first time she purchased and wore a skirt, how she looked at herself in the mirror for hours, alternating between hating herself and loving the way she looked and felt in it.

She talks about how she learned to do her makeup, contouring her face so it looked softer and more feminine, laughing as she explains how fucking difficult winged eyeliner is, and fuck whoever created it because it looks so good but it’s such a pain in the ass.

 She explains her name choice, accidental though the final choice may have been.

 “It suits you, I think,” Otabek says. “Zhenya would’ve been fine too, but I like Nastya. Maybe it’s because I got to know you as Nastya already, but the meaning is good, too. Resurrection. A rebirth, almost.”

“Yeah. And one day, after I can’t skate anymore, I’ll bury Yuri completely, and then I’ll really be resurrected.”

“Does anyone else know?” Otabek asks after a moment.

“I sort of had to tell Viktor and Yuuri,” she says. “Viktor knows I don’t have a twin sister, so when you said you had a date with her, he knew something was up.”

“Ah.”

“But I definitely didn’t tell them all the details and backstory; that was just for you. And they’re also the ones that helped me get here, to tell you everything, so don’t be mad at them or anything.”

“I’m not mad at them,” Otabek reassures.

“Good,” Nastya says. “By the way, my flight back to Russia is tomorrow afternoon, but I didn’t book a hotel or anything… Could I stay here? Like just on your couch or whatever.”

“Of course you can stay here. If you’re comfortable with it, you can even share my bed with me. It’s big enough, and that way neither of us has to suffer a night on the couch.”

Nastya looks at him with a smirk. “Moving kind of fast, aren’t we Altin?”

“I said ‘if you’re comfortable’. If not, I’ll take the couch.”

“No, no, I’m… I’m comfortable.”

 

They have a quiet dinner at home—Otabek cooks something simple—and they watch some mindless cop drama on TV before deciding that it’s been a long day, and they get ready for bed.

Nastya takes off all her makeup, braids her hair so it’s not a tangled horror in the morning, gets into her pajamas, and joins Otabek in his bedroom.

It feels surreal that she’s here, in his room, about to share the bed, and she’s _herself_. He knows, and he doesn’t care, and he somehow forgave her.

She’s not entirely sure where they stand, relationship wise, because, well, things got complicated. But maybe now that they’re not so complicated, they could…

No.

 _One thing at a time, Nastya,_ she tells herself.

“You look good without the makeup too, you know,” Otabek says as he turns down the blankets.

“I don’t think I look enough like a girl without it,” Nastya grumbles.

“Well, you’re still a girl without it.”

“Thanks, Beka.”

They settle in, Otabek opening his arms for Nastya to settle into, her head resting on his chest. It takes a while for her to fall asleep, but when she does, it’s a peaceful, easy slumber.

 

The next morning, they wake up on opposite sides of the bed, sprawled out unattractively. Nastya smiles when she hears the light, barely-there snores coming from Otabek’s side of the bed.

It’s nearly seven, so she goes into the kitchen to see what she can find for breakfast, and decides to make eggs. She could go for some protein that’s _not_ in shake form.

She finds a skillet, some oil, a few spices, and gets to work. She only plans to make enough for herself, because cold eggs are disgusting, and she doesn’t know when Otabek will wake up. Soon enough, though, he wanders out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, yawning widely.

“You’re cooking?” he asks.

“Yeah, you want these eggs? They’re almost done.”

Instead of answering, he comes up behind her and wraps his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder.

She stiffens up at first, but then relaxes into the hold. Deciding the eggs are done, she shakes Otabek off so she can put them on a plate.

“You take those,” she says.

“I can take over the cooking if you want to eat,” Otabek says.

“Nope, these are for you now. Take them and be grateful.”

“Thank you, Nastya,” he says obediently, taking the plate and moving to the table.

Nastya hums quietly as she cooks the next eggs. When they’re done, she plates them and joins Otabek at the table.

When they’re done eating, Otabek takes their dishes to the sink, running some water over them but not really washing them.

He turns back to Nastya, and leans against the counter. “So, I have a question for you.”

“Okay,” Nastya says, anxiety settling in her throat.

“I kind of brought it up yesterday, but the focus was on more important things. I um, wanted to know if we’re still ‘just friends’, or if you were maybe interested in dating? I know you were worried about long distance when I brought it up the first time, back in St Petersburg, but…”

“Honestly, I don’t know,” Nastya says, fidgeting with the end of her braid. “I mean, I like cuddling with you, and the kissing was amazing? But like. What kind of relationship can we have from different countries, only seeing each other for competitions and then once on the off-season?”

“Plenty of people have rewarding long-distance relationships,” Otabek says carefully. “And in those times that we _are_ together, I… I’d like to be with you.”

“Can we take things slow? I mean, I’m still learning who I am, you know? I like you, I really, really do, I just don’t know if I can be in a relationship when I’m also trying to figure myself out.”

“We can go as slow as you need,” Otabek says. “I want you to be comfortable and feel safe.”

“Thank you. And, uh, same for you. Like, you should feel comfortable and safe with me, too.”

“I already do, Nastya.” Otabek smiles, and reaches for her hand on the table.

After a moment, Nastya looks at the clock on the wall. “You have practice this morning, right?”

“Yeah, at nine. Do you want to come with me?”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. Skating people might recognize me…”

“Okay. Do you want me to call in sick?” Otabek offers. “We could do something before your flight.”

“No, you should go to practice. I’ll be fine here. I don’t really feel like going out.”

“Alright. I’ll be back to take you to the airport though.” He gets up to go dress for practice, and soon enough he’s ready.

Nastya is sitting on the couch flipping through channels on the TV when Otabek drops a kiss in her hair from behind the couch. “My spare keys are in the bowl by the door, if you do decide to go out at all. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“Beka?” she asks, getting on her knees to turn around and face him.

“Hmm?”

“Can I get a real kiss?” She’s blushing, she knows it, but she doesn’t regret asking.

“Any time you want,” he says, and leans down to connect his mouth to hers softly.

It’s just as good as she remembers the first time, except this time there is no deception, no lie, only her and Otabek.

They pull away after a moment—far too soon, in Nastya’s opinion—and with a final goodbye, Otabek closes the door softly behind him.

Nastya ends up falling asleep to some boring daytime programming, and when she wakes up it’s lunch time.

Otabek isn’t back yet, so she goes into the kitchen to shuffle around for something quick to eat. She ends up just making a sandwich, but texts Otabek to ask if he wants one too. He declines, but confirms he’s on his way back from the rink.

“Just let me shower and then we’ll get you to the airport,” Otabek says when he gets back.

His shower is brief, and already Nastya feels the dread settling in her stomach that she has to leave; they won’t see each other again for a few months after this.

Nastya gets dressed in gender neutral clothes: a plain black t-shirt, ripped jeans, tiger-striped high-tops. She leaves the braid in, since it will be more comfortable for travel.

 They share a few more kisses before it’s really time to go. Nastya barely makes the flight, but settles into economy seat 23C with a deep sigh.

 

Viktor picks her up from the airport, even though she told him not to; he says he doesn’t mind at all, and he has a car, after all.

“So, it went well?” Viktor asks.

“Yeah. He was… It was like he didn’t even care. Like, he said he was upset that I felt like I couldn’t tell him the truth, but he wasn’t mad.”

“I knew he wouldn’t be. I’m glad everything is good between you two now.”

“Yeah, we’re… we’re good.” She almost tells him that they’re kind of dating now, too, but decides that she’ll save that for later, when she’s had a bit more of a chance to deal with everything.

“I’m proud of you, Nastya,” Viktor says quietly.

They’re in the car, but it still feels strange to have someone other than Otabek calling her Nastya. Like she shouldn’t exist.

In a way, she still has to live a double life: Yuri in public, at the rink, on TV, on social media; Nastya only in private. She’ll continue her little coffee shop outings as Nastya, but she doesn’t really want to risk much more than that.

What’s important, though, is after all these years of struggling with her gender, she doesn’t feel alone anymore. She has Viktor and Yuuri in St Petersburg with her, and she has Otabek, her kind of boyfriend?

It will be challenging, being Yuri still, now that she’s had a taste of being out.

But she is the Ice Tiger of Russia, and she has never backed down from a challenge.

She won’t be starting now.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> I don't speak a word of Kazakh, but I used this video for the sparse phrases mentioned:  
> https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCHFOi-K3kMA7pfgMVf1WJpA 
> 
>  
> 
> as always, find me on tumblr as ricekrispyjoints, if you're into that kind of thing


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